


The Grave

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, I am a Complete Piece Of Shit, M/M, Murder, Wakes & Funerals, this is so fucking sad, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 13:05:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8846212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Moriarty wins.





	

It shouldn’t have come to this.

Sherlock was standing by his grave, looking down at the freshly turned earth, the polished coffin that had been lowered into the ground. The rain was falling, as if the sky knew the wrongness of what had happened, and wanted to punish Sherlock for what he had done. For what he had brought to a good man, for what he had caused, for the death of someone too young.

The flowers were bright and hideous, surreal and vibrant in the dim evening. Everything was saturated by the darkness of thick, heavy clouds above. The suit he was wearing was black. Watson had dressed him, because he hadn’t known how.

He thought of Marcus, reclining on a bed, smiling. The air had been filled with dust motes, illuminated like glitter by the morning sun. Cream sheets. A soft expression. A gentle touch of hands, the taste of coffee. He wished he could envelop himself in that memory, wished he could stay within it forever, but he was struck down by the cruelty of this reality; the cruelty of Marcus, on that same bed, his eyes open and vacant, his body empty, some limp replica of the man Sherlock had come to love. Sherlock had stood there, for so long, looking at him _._ Not thinking. Not functioning at all.

When he finally had ventured close enough to look into those dead eyes, see the blood pooling on Marcus’ chest, he’d started shaking, he’d started crying, he’d started screaming and throwing things, punching the walls and wailing, like some dying animal, like some kind of madman-

He'd not spoken one single word since that moment. Since the moment he'd realised that Marcus was dead, and everything had broken, everything had slid to the side and fragmented into pieces that could never be put back together. Rain fell on the flowers, round like pearls, and Sherlock had already lost the war. The battle against Moriarty, the revenge he was yet to take, the fight to avenge the best man he’d ever known. He could not see. He could not hear. He could not think, deduce, reason, or know; nothing existed that was more powerful than the knowledge that he had killed Marcus Bell.

He had nothing left.

There was a hand on the small of his back, the poisonous smell of something sweet, the touch of lips at his ear.

“I won,” she said.

And she had.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> why did i write this help me
> 
> (inspired by The Grave by Don McLean)


End file.
